


Inconsiderate

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: American Assassin (2017), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28689390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Mitch probably should've gone to the hospital. Scratch that, definitely.
Relationships: Mitch Rapp/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	Inconsiderate

**Author's Note:**

> Idek, I was reading angst fics in another fandom, and then wrote this to balance it out lol Hope you enjoy!  
> Sidenote; Mitch is a dumbass who can't judge the severity of his own injuries. He'll be the death of Stiles one of these days.

He didn’t know where else to go. Home probably would’ve been a better option, but he needed help, and he couldn’t go to a hospital. There would be questions he couldn’t answer and police he didn’t want to speak with, not to mention the sheer  _ cost  _ of a patch up job these days. Sure, he could sneak out while nobody was looking—he was plenty good at that—but that was just so much hassle. And after the weekend he’d had? Fuck it. Mitch has been wounded enough in his life to know what he could and couldn’t deal with on his own—or with help in the form of some extra hands—and he’d already stubbornly decided that he could handle this. 

Which is why he staggeringly made his way to the Sheriff’s house, about a mile away from is current position in the woods. More specifically, he went to see the Sheriff’s son. 

It was after dark and the doors were locked up tight, and Mitch didn’t have his phone, and he wasn’t feeling spry enough to climb his way through Stiles’ upstairs window tonight. He was left with no other option but to knock on the back door and hope none of the neighbors saw him. His knuckles left a bloody smear on the glass. 

Three more aggressive knocks and two minutes later, Stiles came bounding down the stairs, his steps thunderous in the silent house. Mitch slumped heavily against the rough wall of the house, waiting for him, clutching at his throbbing side. His entire body felt like one giant bruise. 

Stiles finally,  _ finally  _ wrenched open the sliding glass door, flicked on the light, and shrieked when he saw the blood. Mitch cringed. Stiles was no banshee, but he sure could scream. Thankfully none of the neighbors came out to investigate because yeah, there was a lot of blood. It was hardly pooling at his feet… but only because his clothes were soaking it up. 

Stiles quickly regained his composure—Mitch knew he wasn’t the first person to show up on Stiles’ doorstep looking like a bloody mess—and threw the door open wide. He flicked off the porch light, too, just in case there were any nosy neighbors. “Get inside before someone sees you,  _ Jesus, _ ” he ordered. 

“Good to see you too, babe.” Stiles had to help Mitch inside because he could barely stand. All the color was drained from his face, leaving his usually tan skin a disconcerting pale. And no wonder; his shirt audibly  _ squelched  _ with blood when Stiles wrapped an arm around him. Maybe he should’ve gone to the hospital, after all. 

Stiles brought Mitch to the kitchen and left him to lean against the table while he soaked a dishtowel in warm water. He filled a large mixing bowl halfway, as well, and came back to mop up the blood. Gingerly, he lifted up the hem of Mitch’s blood-soaked shirt. 

“What did you  _ do? _ ” he asked incredulously, after Mitch struggled out of his shirt. Mitch was  _ riddled  _ with bullets; one through his left hip, another embedded in his right side, a third in his right shoulder. He hissed when Stiles roughly turned him to find another  _ two  _ in his back, clustered under his left shoulder blade. And that was to say nothing of the claw marks raked down his back. Stiles couldn’t tell if he’d run afoul of hunters or a werewolf. Maybe both, with his luck. 

“Eh, y’know how it is,” Mitch said vaguely, trying to wave Stiles off. “Hazard of the job.” Except it  _ wasn’t;  _ tonight had gone spectacularly shitty, and it was a very, very harsh reminder of his mortality, for both of them. Stiles wouldn’t be deterred by Mitch’s protests, forcing Mitch to brace himself against the table as he continued to inspect him. 

“You need a hospital.” 

“No.” 

“Mitch—”

“ _ No,  _ ‘m fine,” he insisted. “Just need some pliers. Got any?” 

“Oh my God.” Now Stiles was the one swiftly losing color, as all the blood drained from his face in horror. 

***

Given the nature of his work, Mitch was the kind of boyfriend that was always ruining movie magic for Stiles, critiquing unrealistic action sequences and scoffing at inaccurate weapons practices. And now, he was considerate enough to give Stiles hands on experience on how stitching up a wound  _ really  _ worked. It wasn’t as easy as the movies made it out to be. 

“I can’t do this.” Stiles stomach was rolling, and he shook his head vehemently, holding the pliers away from his body. The needle-nose tips were bloodied, after he’d already spent the last ten minutes digging the bullets out of Mitch’s flesh; there were  _ five.  _ Would’ve been six, but the one in his thigh went clean through. Stiles heaved a little bit just thinking about it. 

“Yes you can. You have to.” Right, because it wasn’t like Mitch could do it himself. He  _ would,  _ Stiles knew he would, he’d done it before. But he physically couldn’t, this time. He was sitting backwards in one of the wooden kitchen chairs waiting for Stiles to get his shit together and stitch him up. 

“No. Nope. I  _ can’t.  _ I’m gonna pass out.” Taking out the bullets was one thing. It was gorey and awful—especially the way Mitch  _ breathed,  _ labored and agonized, his teeth sunk into his belt and leaving deep divots in the leather—but he could ultimately handle it. After years spent in a werewolf pack, Stiles had a pretty strong stomach for blood. But  _ needles…  _ that was a deep-seated phobia, and he didn’t think he could overcome it here. Not even for Mitch.

“Suck it up.”

“ _ Mitch. _ ” He couldn’t, he  _ couldn’t _ —

“ _ Stiles.”  _ Mitch vaguely gestured to himself, not that he needed to draw attention to the mess of fresh gore staining his chest. “Bleeding out, here.” 

“Yeah, in my  _ kitchen. _ ” His dad would kill him if he ever found out half the things Stiles did in there, but this? This took the cake. 

But Mitch was right. He was losing so much— _ too much, he needs a hospital— _ and Stiles couldn’t afford to keep stalling. 

“I  _ hate  _ you.” Mitch groaned in acknowledgment, and blindly reached out to pat Stiles’ side. He was barely keeping his eyes open, anymore. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got this, totally. Just stay awake, okay?” 

“ _ Ugh. _ ” Stiles would have to take that as agreement. He put Mitch’s belt back to his mouth for him to bite down, and cleaned off his pliers in the bowl of alcohol he’d gotten. Lying beside it: rolls of gauze and bloodied gauze pads, and an almost used up roll of medical tape, used to ensure the dressings over Mitch’s gunshot wounds stayed in place. All that was left was the four long, jagged lines raked down his back.

With shaking hands, he threaded a thick needle with sturdy thread, and pinched it between the tip of the plier’s nose. Because apparently you  _ can’t  _ do stitches by hand. There’s no way to get enough grip on the needle to get through all the layers of tissue. 

_ I can do this,  _ he told himself.  _ Mitch needs me to do this.  _

_ He needs to live so that I can kill him later.  _

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Stiles carefully pinched closed the outermost laceration and forced the needle through Mitch’s flesh. He didn’t scream, but Stiles could hear his jaw pop from how hard he bit down on the belt trying to stay silent. 

There was a sickening kind of resistance before the needle came through the other side, gritting through every layer of flesh, and Mitch writhed in pain. Honestly, he was doing better than Stiles would have ever guessed; he barely made a sound, aside from that harsh, wet, awful breathing. 

It was going to be a long night. 

***

Mitch never quite passed out. Between the pain and the bloodloss he came close to it a few times, but he stayed conscious through sheer force of will. He kept talking to Stiles between stitches, coaching him through it. Keeping him calm like  _ Mitch  _ wasn’t the one getting put back together, trembling, his skin pale and cold, damp with sweat and half-dried blood. 

Stiles would’ve been impressed if he wasn’t the one doing the stitching. He didn’t know how he managed to keep his hands steady through the whole gruesome procedure. It was a testament to the life Mitch has lived that he was able to stay so level-headed through it. 

“Alright, I’m done,” Stiles said, tying off the final stitch. He dropped the pliers in the bowl of alcohol in bullets to sterilize later. 

“See?” Mitch said, breathing hard. His voice was thick and quiet. “Not tha’ bad.” He looked down at the floor but his eyes were barely open, and they kept drifting unseeingly. Sweat dripped off the damp tips of his hair. 

This was the worst shape Stiles had ever seen him in.  _ He could get himself killed someday,  _ Stiles thought. While he always knew, the danger had never seemed so real, before. Someday, Mitch might not make it back to him. 

“I’m going to have nightmares for the rest of my life,” Stiles said, and ignored the way his voice cracked. He cupped Mitch’s face when his lover snorted, tilting his head up to face him. Putting on a watery, weak smile, he said, “There are easier ways of getting into my dreams, you know.”

“Don’t have t’ try, ‘m already dreamy.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” Mitch’s eyes fell closed and he leaned into Stiles’ palm as he stroked a thumb over his cheek, leaving a smear of blood. Stiles pressed a kiss to his sweat-damp brow and reluctantly pulled away; they were both a mess. He had to clean them up.  _ Have to hide the evidence before my dad the  _ cop  _ gets home, or he’ll think I murdered someone. _

Stiles mopped Mitch up as best he could with a fresh cloth, wiping the blood off of his ashen skin, and poured the bowl of bloody water down the sink when he was finished. He’d have to do a more thorough clean up job before his dad got home in the morning, but this would do for now. His first priority was Mitch, who was sorely in need of rest. 

Mitch was even more dead on his feet than he’d been when he showed up over an hour ago, and Stiles had to half carry, half drag him up the stairs. They tumbled into his bedroom, Stiles panting with exertion by the time he dropped Mitch on the bed, face down. He groaned. 

“You’re—heavy,” Stiles gasped, doubled over. Mitch had probably twenty pounds on him at  _ least,  _ and it was all muscle.  _ Usually,  _ that was a fact he appreciated. 

“You’re weak,” he grumbled, face half buried in the pillow. He blindly reached for Stiles, splaying his hand on the covers. “C’mere.”

“Can’t. Have to go clean up the  _ crime scene  _ downstairs.” 

“Sorry.” 

“You should be.” Stiles didn’t mean it, though. He’d rather have a kitchen full of blood than a dead boyfriend. At least Mitch was safe, now. He took Mitch’s hand and said as much. “Next time just go to the hospital, okay?”

“No promises.” 

“ _ Yes,  _ promises.” Mitch didn’t respond, but he did squeeze Stiles’ hand. “At least let me call Melissa to check you over, tomorrow.” Stiles had become pretty good at first aid over the year, being the resident pack human, but battlefield sutures weren’t exactly his forte. As evidenced by the jagged, uneven black lines down Mitch’s back.

“Mm.” 

“You’re lucky I love you,” Stiles sighed, and bent down to give him a soft kiss. “Get some sleep.” 

“Love you, too,” Mitch mumbled. He was unconscious before Stiles even made it to the door. 

**Author's Note:**

> TFW you suddenly have the manic need in the middle of the night to write a fic. Anyway it's 1am now, hope you enjoyed! (And hope there are no egregious errors...)


End file.
